Everything Is Now, and We Are Here
by Lola Ravenhill
Summary: Darcy Lewis believes that every moment can be a new beginning, about how some things never really end, and how you can find these things in the most unexpected of places. Of course, even she's freaked out when she starts seeing the soldier from her dreams larger than life and walking down the streets of Brooklyn.
1. Chapter 1

A/n: This was written for Sadirapookie's tarot card challenge on Tumblr. Since my skills in the graphic arts are woeful, I decided to go for a written entry instead. My card was the Magician. The card itself has a variety of symbolic images that represent the elements of earth, air, water, and fire. Other notable images in the card are an infinity sign, a wooden table, a carpet of roses and lilies by the feet, and others. In researching the Magician's card, one of the most common themes that kept popping up was how the card symbolizes the beginning of something. The Magician helps the person asking the question discover the drive, initiative, and power to start this something, though it's a bit of question as to whether the power is coming from outside of the asker (as in the Magician granting them the power) or if these skills come from within. Or maybe it's both. As above, so below, as the card likes to indicate.

With all that in mind, this story ended up taking me back to my fantasy roots and probably veering somewhat into AU territory. There's nothing here that contradicts anything we've seen on screen, however, so it's not exactly AU. This story operates on the idea that the identity of Steve Rogers, the man behind the Captain America mask, is a well-kept secret from the public. All the dates referred to in this story pull from MCU canon.

Okay, enough with the notes. On with the show!

* * *

**Everything Is Now, and We Are Here**

* * *

At its heart, this is a tale about beginnings.

* * *

_"What is it with hot blonds randomly popping up lately?"_

_ Steve knows he's dreaming, if only based on landscape alone. The rocky plains with scrubby brush laid out in front of him and that endless night sky above that stretches out to the ends of the universe clearly indicate that he's not in the middle of a European forest anymore. There's a part of him that thinks he can feel his body still back in the woods, curled around a banked fire taking a few hours to get his rest in while a couple of the other Commandos keep watch, but that could just be the innate oddness of dreams talking. He looks over at the young woman standing next to him who has uttered those words. "Excuse me?" he asks._

_ The young woman gives him an appraising look from the tips of his boots – now he knows he must be dreaming because he certainly wasn't sleeping in the khakis and woolen jacket with all of his insignia pinned on there in the woods – to the top of his head. She arches an eyebrow over the tops of her thick framed glasses. "First, I have to tase the crazy guy who fell out of the sky and thought he was a Norse god. Crazy but cut, I'll be the first to admit. And just as I get the chance to catch a few winks after the batcrap insanity of the last day, I'm dreaming about hot vintage soldiers…I suppose I shouldn't complain about that."_

_ Steve stares around at the wide expanse of sky, at a few gnarled trees off in the distance, then his eyes land back on the young woman. She has long dark hair that's pulled up into a ponytail, with a few pieces coming loose and brushing against the glasses. There's pale skin and full lips, and an unusual outfit that seems a lot less structured than what any of the women he's familiar with wears. "What does it say about me if I'm dreaming about girls in odd clothes?" he fires back. He should be a gentleman, he knows this, but his words come out before he can control them._

_ Luckily, she seems to appreciate his candor and sends him a smirk. "That this could be the beginning of a weird yet beautiful friendship?"_

_ "And now my dreams are bastardizing Casablanca," Steve mutters, shaking his head slightly._

_ She just laughs, loudly, the sound echoing out across the rocks and into the sky. She spins around in her thick riding boots, turning to look at the far off horizon. On the back of her neck, right below her hairline, Steve can see a mark, an inked on figure eight that's been tipped over to a horizontal position. The more he stares at it the more it looks like it begins to move, undulating and rippling across pale cream skin._

Steve blinks awake, his eyes finally focusing on the canopy of leaves and branches above him. He exhales roughly, and can see his breath make steaming clouds in the air.

Just a dream. Right.

* * *

Sixty-odd years and half a world away Darcy Lewis wakes up from her nap as Erik Selvig storms around the now empty lab/former car dealership, grumbling to himself about how Jane had done exactly what he'd told her not to and now he had to get her and the delusional homeless guy out of trouble. She frowns and pushes herself upright on the old couch, feeling the fabric scratch against the palms of her hands. Given the choice she'd rather deal with the handsome soldier in her dreams but real life is, unfortunately, making a nuisance of itself.

'Maybe tomorrow night,' she thinks, though it's a vague, half-formed idea.

* * *

_The next time Steve dreams of the young woman, he dreams of her lounging in a tub inside a dimly lit bathroom. "Oh, jeez," he says, turning around quickly and knocking a few of the bottles spread out across the long counter. His hand bangs into what looks like a fancy radio, bringing a crackle of static and a burst of tinny-sounding music. He can easily see his blushing face in the mirror as a voice from the radio asks if he believes in magic, and his eyes snap down to the counter._

_ "It's okay, you can look," he hears her say, voiced laced through with giggles. "I don't think you can see anything below the bubbles. And hey, it's my dream; I bet I can make myself look as anatomically correct as a Barbie doll underneath all of this anyway."_

_ Steve warily peeks over his shoulder. 'It's just a dream,' he reminds himself. 'No one needs to know that you're dreaming about naked women in bathtubs. Bet Bucky would appreciate the sight, though.' He turns around fully and sure enough she's covered in so many bubbles that only her bare shoulders and her grinning face are visible above the clouds. Near the spigot one of her legs dangles out of the tub, wet and dripping, and he could see another inked chain of flowers encircling her ankle, roses and lilies it looks like. "I thought the tattooed ladies were only found at Coney Island sideshows," he says, and her eyebrows arch over her glasses once more._

_ "Wow, you really know how to charm a girl, don't you?" she says._

_ "It's never been one of my strongest skills," Steve stutters out as he leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. "So what's a dame like you doing in a place like this?"_

_ "You mean this lousy bathroom that I'm trying to make delightfully ambient by judicious application of some candles?" she says, picking up some of the bubbles with a fingertip and blowing them in his direction._

_ "Or in my dream," Steve says. "Because I'm pretty sure I fell asleep in the barracks and you're a hell of a lot nicer looking than the men on my team."_

_ She preens at that statement, smiling smugly at him. "See, that was much improved. Thank you." Then she rolls her eyes and leans back in the tub. "As for me, I'm pretty sure I fell asleep on the sofa in the lab again and I really wish I was soaking in a bathtub. I was supposed to stay awake to wait for my crazy boss to get back from whatever scheme she and the crazy hot blond have cooked up, but obviously that didn't happen. This is what happens when jackbooted thugs steal my iPod." She gives Steve one of those up and down looks again. "Still think I got the better end of the deal, however, if you're showing up." _

_ "Thanks. I think."_

_ "So what's your name, soldier boy? This is the second time I've dreamt about you; I need something more than 'soldier boy'," she asks._

_ She should already know this, he thinks, being his dream, but maybe there's a script that has to play out here. He's not wearing the uniform of Captain America here, so he ends up saying, "Steve. My name's Steve Rogers. And yours?"_

_ "Darcy Lewis." It's not the name he figures his sleeping brain would have come up with, but he only seems to have some minimal degree of control over the whole situation._

_ He comes to the conclusion that the name Darcy suits her when that toothy grin spreads across her face once more and she says, "You know, I think we can both squeeze into this bathtub; you're welcome to join me if you'd like."_

* * *

Bucky falls, vanishing with a scream and a swirl of snow into the seemingly endless winter.

* * *

It's the first night of their renewed search for the Einstein-Rosen…oh, to hell with it, she likes the way the word 'Bifrost' trips off her tongue instead, and so Darcy decides to keep calling it that. She and Jane work diligently until the sun comes up, coming back to the lab with new readings and updated star charts. When they get back, Jane flops onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. Darcy pulls a couple of beers out of the fridge, pops off the caps, and walks over to hand one to Jane. "Isn't it a little early for that?" Jane says, though she takes the bottle from her.

"We've been up all night," Darcy says, sitting on the other end of the couch. "I think we're entitled to a beer before going to bed." She knocks her bottle against Jane's, a satisfying clink echoing throughout the lab. "To new beginnings."

"New beginnings," Jane agrees, and they drink deeply.

* * *

_Darcy rubs her hands up and down her arms, feeling cold even in the middle of her dreams. "Where are we?" she asks, staring wide-eyed and horrified at the scenery around her. They're in the middle of a street at night and the buildings and homes on either side caved in or reduced to rubble, with streams and trails of smoke drifting upwards every so often._

_ "London. East End," Steve says, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets and his shoulders slumped. He doesn't look much like a soldier right now, more like the little boy lost, Darcy thinks._

_ Darcy takes in a shaky breath. She can't quite believe what she's dreaming, even though she's seen pictures in history books and studied the repercussions of World War Two in countless poli-sci classes. Right then and there she sees the destruction and damage up close and horrifyingly personal. "This is where you're staying?"_

_ "Nearby here, when we're in between missions." Steve shakes his head, and what could possibly be a bitter grin flits across his face. "My best friend died on our last mission, and I couldn't do a damn thing to save him."_

_ She pauses in the middle of the street, bombed out shells of buildings all around her. Darcy stares at him as he keeps walking, feeling that horror come zooming back. She runs after him, grabbing at his bicep to pull him to a stop. She can feel the muscles in his arm, tense and stiff like he's ready to run away. His face is pale yet oddly flushed in places, and his eyes look just a little bit swollen. He's been crying, Darcy realizes, even though the signs are barely there. "I'm so sorry," she says, knowing the words will barely make a dent in his grief. So she leans forward and wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly._

_ Eventually Steve's arms lift up and wrap themselves carefully around her shoulders. Even though he's a great deal taller than her he tucks his face against Darcy's neck, and she can feel the shudders running throughout his whole body._

When Darcy wakes up, she can still feel the traces of tears against the skin of her neck.

* * *

Steve blinks blearily in the darkness of the barracks, waking up slowing and wishing that he was still asleep. He closes his eyes and sees Bucky falling into the ravine, but he can also feel Darcy's arms wrapped around his back. It doesn't help with the pain of reliving that moment, over and over, but for the moment he doesn't feel like he's alone in the world.

* * *

_"You have an artist's hands," Darcy says, picking up his hand and spreading the fingers wide. It's far more forward than Steve is used to from a dame, but he's stopped questioning these dreams. They're in what looks like one of those low, stonewalled farmhouses that the Commandos have camped out in while in France, seated across from each other at a roughly hewn wood table. The room is dark, and there are a couple of tall pillar candles flickering yellow and orange. The candles cast deep shadows across the table and onto Darcy's face, glinting off of her black-framed glasses._

_ "Maybe once," Steve says with a faint smile, looking down at the table and tracing patterns in the wood with his free hand. "But not anymore."_

_ She laces her fingers through his, propping her elbow up and turning their arms into a triangular shape. "The fight comes calling, right?"_

_ Steve shakes his head. "Not quite. I've never liked bullies. At least this way I can do something about it." He gently squeezes the fingers laced through his. "We're going in tomorrow," he says. "We're invading their home base and with any luck we're going to end this nightmare."_

_ Darcy's lips twist to one side, not quite a grin, and he can see something nervous in her look. "I don't suppose you need me to tell you to be careful, right?"_

_ "No. But it's nice to hear."_

_ "So do you have any idea what you're going to do when the war's over?" Darcy asks, shoving her hair back. _

_Steve watches as the hair falls in a dark wave over one shoulder. He thinks of all the things he'd like to do once the war is done, take Peggy dancing, serve his country, maybe go back and finish up art school. His options are wide open and the world might just possibly be his for the taking. But none of these ideas make it past his lips, and instead he simply shrugs once more._

_Darcy squeezes his fingers once more. "Well, just remember that every ending is also a new beginning. It's one big freakin' circle and we're just living in it."_

* * *

Steve Rogers falls, lost to the ice and the ages, taking the bombs, the cube, and Schmidt down with him. Captain America is hailed as a hero and becomes a true legend. The man behind the mask gets lost in the myth, only remembered by the few that really knew him.

* * *

Darcy stops dreaming of her soldier. She doesn't know when exactly he became hers, but that's what he is in her head. And even though their dream encounters were few, she misses falling asleep and seeing him there.

Instead, her dreams take a darker turn. At the beginning Darcy wakes up shivering, freezing cold all the way down to her bones. Not long after that the whistling wind starts, pushing and pulling her in every direction and knocking her off her feet into what feels like massive mounds of snow and ice. When she opens her eyes, sucking in gasping breaths as if her lungs can't take in nearly enough air, she holds up her arms and is surprised not to see ice crystals growing on her skin.

"I can blame this on Thor, right?" she asks herself in the mirror because really, who else is she going to ask about this? Luckily she's alone in the cramped cell her university calls a dorm room, so there's no one but the spiders to hear her slightly insane ramblings about ice and giants and fiery destroyers and lost soldiers. Maybe it's a part of the inevitable crash of being back in the normal world after all those months of helping Jane chase wormholes and interstellar bridges. Instead of being out there she's stuck back on campus for three measly credits and a thesis she's lost almost all interest in.

For the briefest moment Darcy flirts with the idea of changing her major to mythological studies (yes, that course of study actually exists at her school) in an effort to help not explain but at least understand what went down in New Mexico. But the political science degree is almost complete, does she really want to spend another three years in school racking up the debt? So she resigns herself to her fate, ekes out a frankly fabulous thesis (even though she doesn't give a damn about it anymore) and manages to graduate with honors. Go team Lewis.

* * *

Still, Steve sleeps. It's going to be a while before he wakes up.

* * *

Darcy keeps in touch with Jane, who she finds out has been appropriated by S.H.I.E.L.D. to keep running her tests but with their backing and budget (which has no room in it for an assistant who's qualified in political science but not astrophysics, throwing a major wrench in her post-graduation plans. Damn government agencies). Jane sounds okay with this but there's an undertone in her voice, fragile and bitter, that Darcy thinks isn't as thrilled as it should be. Still, at least she can keep researching which is more than Darcy's got going for her right then.

The long months after graduation are filled with her parents harassing her about employment – it's not her fault the job market sucks balls – or of younger siblings who seem to know just what they want out of their future and are well on their way to getting it, unlike her. They are months of mind numbing normality that Darcy just isn't used to anymore. At the four month mark Darcy says to hell with it. A friend of hers from college posts on Facebook that she needs someone to fill the empty room in the apartment as the prior resident fucked off to live with a boyfriend (her words, not Darcy's) and if the room wasn't filled then she and the other roommates would lose their apartment. Apparently four people aren't enough to keep the apartment afloat, but a fifth would do nicely.

So, Darcy ends up moving to Brooklyn, New York. Surprisingly her parents are okay with this. Every ending is a new beginning, she reminds herself once more, echoing her own words from her dream.

The apartment itself is a bit – scratch that – a lot of a dive, but there are skylights and roof access points that make up for the shoddy interior space. Between the five of them the rent is surprisingly affordable, though still costing more than Darcy would have preferred. The perils of living in DUMBO, she thinks, which leads to the passing thought that that is an awful name for a neighborhood. Of course, there's still the general feeling of living in a dormitory (and she's pretty sure her new bedroom is about the same size as that confessional booth of a dorm room) but Darcy has never liked being alone all that much anyway. Despite the funny name she loves the area, and is more than willing to put up with the weed fumes from the art studio on the first floor – she is willing to change this opinion if they ever decide to share their stash – for the amazing view from the roof where they can see parts of the epic Manhattan skyline.

* * *

On one of the hottest evenings so far that year where Darcy is sleeping in just a pair of panties because wearing anything more would make her skin stick uncomfortably to the single thin sheet below she dreams of her soldier boy again. Steve's as naked as she is but he's curled up fetal-like in sweeping white drifts of snow. His skin is a ghastly shade of pale blue, and he's as still as death.

Darcy reaches over to straighten out his dog tags from where they're twisted around his neck. His skin is so cold to the touch, and she wishes she could take him back to her sweatbox of a room and warm him up until he doesn't look quite so blue anymore. As her dream doesn't seem to be that receptive to her wishes, she instead curls up behind him, thinking she can warm him up that way.

On the hottest night of the year, Darcy Lewis wakes up shaking with the cold.

* * *

In retrospect, that's when Darcy should have realized what – or who – exactly she is dreaming of. The story of the World War II soldier lost to the frozen wasteland is so well known that it has moved easily into legend. Movies and comic books keep the stories of Captain America's adventures alive for years to come, even though those tales barely resemble any real life versions of events. Darcy knows these stories too, between history classes in school that tell a sanitized (or rather, S.H.I.E.L.D. sanctioned) story and the more glamorous and adventurous tales shown on the screen. But none of these stories tell the truth of the matter, about the quiet man behind the mask who used to be an artist, lost his best friend to battle, and hoped for a future after the war. If these things are mentioned, they're done in ways that make for better storytelling, not to reveal the truth. That man, Steve, is who Darcy is dreaming about, not the legend.

In the end, none of this even matters. Because whether it's coincidence or fate, they manage to find each other again, and for the very first time, without dreaming.

* * *

Steve never expects to wake up. He knew as soon as he sat down in that pilot's chair that it was going to be a very short, one-way trip. If him crashing that plane meant that the east coast, hell, his own hometown would be spared, then so be it. In none of his wildest fever dreams did he think that he'd open his eyes well into the twenty-first century. He isn't quite sure which is more out of a science fiction novel, the frozen for sixty seven years beneath the Arctic ice part, or that life in those ensuing years has become that much more faster, louder, technological, and all around insane. And worst of all, there's no going back. Futuristic as this era is, they still haven't invented a time machine like H.G. Wells predicted so he's stuck in this brand new world without any sort of compass whatsoever.

* * *

But sometimes, if you're very, very lucky or very, very good, fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it will throw you a bone and give you a bit of a break. Maybe Fate has a bit of a soft spot for Steve Rogers, and maybe she wants to see what Darcy Lewis will do when confronted with even more unusual occurrences. Fate is a fickle mistress, but she does have a sense of humor.

* * *

Fittingly, it's a bitterly cold January night the first time Darcy sees Steve – or at least someone she thinks looks a hell of a lot like him. She can't even remember what she is doing out that late, if she's coming home from whatever shitty job she has that month or heading out to meet the roommates at a bar and drink cheap beer until they can't see straight. It doesn't matter. The important part is that whoever that guy is on the other side of the street looks eerily like the man she's dreamed about since Thor made his earthly debut, from the sharp part in his hair to the firm set of his shoulders. He's walking away from her, eyes straight ahead and focusing on something she can't see.

Darcy freezes in her footsteps, wanting to call out but knowing that the inevitable result would be her making a fool out of herself when it turns out not to be him. Because really, what are the chances?

What are the chances that she'd see him again the very next week too? That's exactly what happens, right in the heart of Midtown when she's attempting to make the most of the half hour lunch break from her latest temp job and indulges in the freshly made crepes from the food truck outside the building. There's a mass of humanity flowing all around her, but Darcy can still pick him out in the crowd, larger than freakin' life.

This time, she decides, she's got to find out for herself that it is _not_ him, that her brain is seeing what it wants to see and filling in incorrect blanks. But before she can step out of line (she is willing to sacrifice Nutella and strawberry filled crepes for this) the man who looks like Steve vanishes down a subway entrance and her chance is lost.

"Am I going crazy?" she asks Jane later that night after giving her a brief and vague rundown of events. Darcy doesn't tell her everything though, because she likes her secrets. It seems entirely contradictory to her personality, but she likes those small little things that are hers and hers alone.

"Yes, you are," Jane says dryly, and Darcy and practically hear the smirk in her voice. "Look," she continues, sounding more like the scientist now. "I'm positive that there are any number of rational explanations for what's happening. People resemble each other all the time. How many times have you been told you look like that actress, by the way?"

"Who _I _look like is so not the point. You know, one of those rational explanations would be great right about now because none of this is making any damn sense!"

Jane laughs in her ear. "You're persistent, I'll give you that. I know you, Darcy, and you'll find the answers you need. Just…don't get arrested in the process?"

* * *

The first time Steve sees an iPod he's puzzled, but not for the reasons the headshrinkers at S.H.I.E.L.D. would suspect. He's puzzled because he dreamt about this device back in 1945, clutched tightly in one of Darcy's hands as they wandered through the streets of a bombed out London. Now, he knows the serum didn't grant him any precognitive abilities, and he doesn't recall Howard Stark ever cooking up some contraption like that. So why the hell is he dreaming about something that, according to the guys at S.H.I.E.L.D., didn't come out until 2001?

It gets worse when he thinks he starts to see the girl herself around the streets of New York City. The doctors say the serum had protected him permanent damage caused by the crash and the cold, but now he can't help but wonder if his brain got rattled more than he previously thought.

The moment when Steve thinks he sees a girl who looks startlingly like Darcy through the windows of the apartment next door to his one night is when he thinks he's well and truly ready to be shipped off to the asylum. There are faint thoughts that this is a dying dream of his, a life flashing before his eyes in that last moment before oxygen runs out, but if that's the case why aren't Peggy and Bucky there waiting for him? Besides, it has been proven numerous times that this is unflinching reality.

She's standing in a kitchen that looks old – real old, not just old looking like his appliances (he can tell the difference) – pouring something out into a mug and talking to another girl he can see through the next window over. Same dark hair, thick-framed glasses, curvy figure, and wide grin. Steve knows he shouldn't stop and stare, that it would bother people if they were to notice, but there's something so breathtakingly familiar about her that he indulges himself, just this once. He flicks off the lights in his apartment, allowing himself the luxury of pretending it's 1945 again for a little while.

* * *

As mentioned before, sometimes Fate doesn't mind giving her favored a little nudge, and she likes the lost soldier and the little woman with the magician's markings. She's gotten them as close as she can, now it's their turn.

* * *

Not long after that, everything comes to a head. It's not intentional, just a chance meeting of eyes through the windows of their respective apartments. But it's enough to make the fine hairs on the back of Darcy's neck stand at attention. This is the best chance for her to find out, once and for all, if she really is losing it or there's something a lot bigger at work here.

Tenacious she is, timid she isn't so she jams her feet into her boots and shoves her Taser into her back pocket. She runs outside, ignoring the fact that while it is a sunny Saturday it is only thirty-five degrees outside and a t-shirt doesn't exactly provide the best protection from the cold weather. As it is a fifteen second jog between buildings Darcy doesn't really care.

She runs up the stoop of the building next door and heads into the vestibule. Her eyes run across the lines of dull brass mailboxes, not coming to a stop until they land on a familiar name. Across the top of one of the boxes is the name 'Steven Rogers' printed neatly on a piece of tape. "Huh," Darcy says, head tilting to the side as if she can't quite believe what's right in front of her eyes. But that's just a name only, and a common one at that. It could be just coincidence still.

When a woman pushing a baby carriage struggles to open up the interior door, Darcy takes the chance. She holds the door wide open for the woman who thanks her with a smile, and then sneaks inside of the building before the door closes once more. The apartment is on the third floor if she's right about the numbers on the boxes, and she heads for the stairs. She's feeling tense and twitchy at the moment, better to hike up there than start bouncing around in an elevator.

Darcy comes to a stop in front of the door for Steve Rogers' apartment (and it is a very bland, unassuming door), takes a deep breath, reminds herself of her tenacity, and knocks. Ever so slowly the door creaks open, although it could also be her imagination playing up and making things overly dramatic by slowing down her impressions of time, and a tall figure appears in the doorway. She releases a soft, shaky breath at the sight of Steve standing there, in the flesh and even realer than he'd seemed in her dreams. But he's not smiling. His jaw is set and there's steel in his eyes, but more than anything else he looks incredibly nervous. Darcy thinks it a bit strange that she can tell this just by looking at him for a few seconds, but the thought is dismissed as soon as he opens his mouth. "Who are you?" he asks, hand gripping the door frame so hard it practically splinters.

"I could ask you the same thing," she shoots back, the words spilling out as if she'd flicked the off switch on her mental filters. "Because if you're the same Steve I think you are, and you recognize me for the same reasons, then we've gone so far into crazy that I just might be a lost cause. But I highly doubt I'm alone in the crazy this time."

Steve cuts his eyes across the hallway, staring at nothing for a moment. Then he looks back at her, more thoughtfully than anything else. "The back of your neck," he eventually says.

"Excuse me?"

"On the back of your neck there's a small mark." He pulls his hand from the door frame and makes a rocking motion with it. "A figure eight, on its side."

Darcy nods faintly. She usually wears her hair down so the small tattoo isn't easily seen. It's not one of her secrets, not exactly, but she's never the one to point it out first, a hidden treasure to remind herself that everything is connected and ongoing, forever and ever (it made sense to her at the time). So she turns around slowly, sweeping her hair to the side in the process to show off the tattoo that's right below her hairline. "It's an infinity sign," she says. "No beginning or ending, just a constant circle."

And if that's the way he wants to play it…she turns around and rattles off the insignia she'd seen on his dress uniform. She doesn't know the exact names of the bars, pins, and medals, but it's detailed enough. Steve just nods in response, looking about as dumbstruck as she feels right then. "How the fuck are you here?" she blurts out. "People aren't supposed to just walk out of dreams and move into the apartment building next door."

Steve arches his eyebrows, a skeptical look that she's actually familiar with. "I'm still not sure you're not a figment of my imagination. And frankly, out of all of the strange things that have happened in my life lately, this isn't even the highest one on the list. Close, but not quite there."

Darcy grits her teeth and jabs her index finger into his chest, feeling solid warm flesh beneath a rather unfortunate plaid shirt. Then she winces and shakes her finger out, trying to loosen up the jammed knuckle. Boy's got pecs, she thinks idly. "Don't avoid the question," she says. "I still don't get how you're standing here."

Steve laughs bitterly and shakes his head. "It's a long, strange story."

"It's a Saturday; I've got all the time in the world to hear this one."

* * *

"Captain America. Huh."

They're sitting on opposite ends of the couch in Steve's living room, exhausted from hours of storytelling. They look like mirror images of two broken dolls, legs splayed out awkwardly and backs slumping into the cushions.

Steve cuts his eyes across to Darcy. "Space aliens that look like Norse gods," he says in response.

"I honestly don't know which is weirder." Darcy sighs, rolling her head back on the cushions and wishing she could take a nap. Being honest is damn tiring, she thinks.

"Call it a draw, because if we ever tell anyone else about this…" he trails off, shaking his head.

Darcy snorts, not very ladylike but she doesn't really care, and finishes up the thought: "It's straight to the funny farm for us." She rolls her head to look at him. "For the record, I still say a wizard did it. Or at least Thor. Maybe."

"It's as good a guess as any I've got," Steve says.

"So how are you liking the twenty-first century so far?" Darcy asks, lips quirking up in a small smile.

Steve's face is solemn, however, and his gaze goes off into the distance once more. "Right now I'd give anything to go back to 1945," he says. "Doesn't matter if it's right in the middle of a war. I don't fit here."

"Adaptation takes time," Darcy shrugs, not sure what else she can say. But she knows what she can do. She pushes herself off the couch and grabs Steve's jacket. "Come on," she states confidently. "Let's go get pizza. There's a place down in Bensonhurst with some of the best slices that I think has been around even longer than you have."

* * *

As Steve looks up at Darcy, standing there eagerly with his coat held out like an offering in his direction, he knows that he's got a choice. He could stay put, only going out to the boxing gym to pound the living daylights out of their punching bags and for the occasional coffee. He could keep hoping that maybe one day he'll open his eyes and be in 1945 with Peggy by his bedside, welcoming him back with a wide smile.

But maybe it's time to accept the truth of the matter, that he can't go home again but he can always move forward. And he won't learn about this brand new century of his unless he gets out of his head, out of his apartment, and experiences life first hand. Steve stands up and takes the jacket from Darcy's hands. "You know, pizza sounds pretty good," he says.

Darcy just grins back at him.

* * *

A/N: The pizza place in Bensonhurst actually does exist, established in 1939 according to the sign outside and is one of the most well-known pizza joints in Brooklyn to this day. When you're there, I highly recommend the Sicilian style pie and the spumoni. I'm not quite done with this story; I've got plans to take this version of Steve and Darcy somewhat through _The Avengers_ (as I've no desire to recap the entire movie in fic format) and a bit beyond that. It was supposed to be a part of this piece, but as I'm already late getting this fic submitted part two will have to wait. The second story will also be a bit more romantic than this one if the story goes where I plan it (I repeat my running out of time statement-it'll happen in this universe, just at a later point in time than this one ends), just to give you a heads up, so stay tuned for that too. Thanks for reading!


	2. Dream 1

A/N: as the latest part of Physical Phenomena is currently kicking my ass in, I'm briefly diverting over to the world of 'Everything is Now, and We Are Here'. Obviously, you'll have to have read that one first otherwise this will make absolutely no sense whatsoever. For right now this piece is going to be posted as chapter two of that story, but I'll migrate it over into its own story once more parts are written (and as soon as I think of a title, which for some reason is the most difficult part). So keep an eye out for that update in the future. The other thing to keep in mind is that this story follows directly on from the initial one, which means it also takes place prior to the Avengers movie.

* * *

"I wonder if this means the dreams will stop?" Darcy says through a mouthful of pizza. "You know, now that we're here in person and all of that."

Steve shrugs, tossing his napkin to the side. The pizza is good but the restaurant (and really, the eating area's more of a closed off patio than anything else) is a bit chilly for his tastes, with only thin plastic walls keeping the outdoor weather at bay. "No idea," he says, grabbing another slice off of the tray. "I can't explain it as it is." He takes a bite and chews slowly, thoughtfully. The taste is different than what he's used to, but the flavor's good and he has the passing thought that he's glad he's awake to experience it. "But I haven't had any of the dreams since I was..." Steve trails off, trying to find the right words to describe the situation. "Revived," he eventually says, mindful of the small crowd of people around them, complete with young children running about and screaming like they've got no cares in the world aside from what's for dinner.

"I dreamed about the ice," Darcy says, her eyes following the cars rushing by on the street outside. "But that stopped right around the time I'm betting you woke up. Maybe it really is over."

"Welcome to a whole new world," Steve mutters.

* * *

Of course it's not over.

* * *

_ The first dream is about falling, which is such a dream cliché that Darcy's almost disappointed about it. But she can't fret about that until she wakes up as she's too busy hanging onto Steve's neck as they plummet towards the ground. There's a bright cerulean sky above them and mottled green land far below them that might possibly be Earth, but something's off with it in that fuzzy way that dreams have and she's not sure where they're headed. She tightens her arms around his neck and hopes like hell that she's not choking him in this warped version of a piggyback ride._

_ While Darcy is in a state of utter and total panic, digging her nails into the heavy uniform jacket beneath her hands, Steve seems to be a bit more level headed. He pulls one of her legs around his waist, signaling to her to bring the other one around and hold on even tighter. Super soldier better be able to handle this, she thinks, locking her ankles around his middle. The air is getting colder, and they're starting to move marginally faster._

_ Then Steve raises his shield above their heads, and it's the older triangle style one that made an appearance in all those comic books and trading cards and even those silly propaganda movies. Whatever's in the shield seems to work, however, making them slow down just enough that they don't die when they crash land on the grassy hillside. The shield flies off of Steve's arm as they hit the ground and they begin slide downwards. They tumble head over heels for what seems like an age, getting dizzier and dizzier with dirt in their hair and grass in their mouths._

_ Finally they come to a stop at the base of the hill, a mixed up tangle of limbs that struggles to get their breath back after the free fall. Darcy pushes some hair out of her face and looks up at Steve. He rolls to his back, staring up at the sky they just fell from. His mouth opens and closes a few times, searching for the right words. Even in dreams the words don't come easy, so he just shakes his head a final time and says, "Well, okay then."_

* * *

It's chance when they see each other the next morning on the subway platform into Manhattan. Steve has a 'no, it's not required but highly recommended you attend' meeting with one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s therapists, while Darcy received an early morning wakeup call from her agency because someone needed a temp to babysit a front desk and phone for the day. It's boring but hey, easy money that can be put toward the rent payment.

"So, falling?" Steve eventually says as they stand in the subway car like sardines packed in a tin, uncomfortably close with humanity pressing in on all sides. Steve's got a death grip on a metal bar, while Darcy grabs onto the hem of his jacket as she's just short enough that reaching the nearest support is impossible. Still, Steve doesn't seem to mind, and it's nice to have a bit of a barrier between her and the rest of the commuters, at least on one side.

It's also an oddly close and intimate move, but once you've been inside someone's dreams typical intimacy needs to be redefined a bit.

"Yeah," Darcy replies. "It's not my usual sort of thing, though," she continues. "You?"

"Only if I'm in a plane," he says, jaw clenched and eyes unfocused.

Darcy fights back the instinctual wince at that statement. "At least it was a soft landing," she says with a shrug and a tilt of her head.

The laugh that Steve gives is weak and barely there, but it counts for something. "There is that."

Still, the wary, shared looks make it easy to determine that both of them are more than slightly freaked out by this new development.

* * *

A/n, part two: as always, I'm open to suggestions for dream scenes for Steve and Darcy, and the weirder the better. If you'd like you can leave suggestions in the comments, or drop me a line at my tumblr: aenariasbookshelf dot tumblr dot com. Thanks for reading!


	3. Dream 2

Dream #2

From a prompt by Achlys: childhood memories. This is also in chronological order, taking place right after the last one, so it is set prior to the Avengers movie.

* * *

_A movie set. That's what this latest dream scene reminds Steve of. It has all of the curving lines, sandy stucco buildings, and swooping curlicues of an exotic North African locale, but there's something too perfect about the picture. The buildings are just a little too clean, the tiled floor of the courtyard too straight and even, not reflecting the millions of footsteps that would have passed over them throughout the centuries. Potted trees and bushes line the walls of the stone courtyard, laced with golden lights that glitter and twinkle as the rain pours down from a heavy, leaden sky._

_ There's an overhang on one side of the courtyard, with arches and columns that look like old stone but are probably crafted from a much newer material sheltering wrought iron tables and chairs from the weather. A family is seated around one of the tables: mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, with a couple of children to round out the group. One child is seated in what Steve supposes is a carriage, buckled in with head tilted to the side, snoozing away with no care or worry about what's going on. The other child, a small brunette girl that's more spindly limbs than anything else is perched on top of another table, watching a dancer weave through the seats._

_ The dancer clicks the small cymbals on the ends of her index fingers and thumbs, creating a harmony with the chain belt draped around her bare waist and the delicate, tiny golden bells that ring her ankles and wrists. Her body is draped in diaphanous red, ivory, and black fabric, revealing and concealing as she winds her way through the courtyard. There's a twisting sinuousness to her moves, like she's sliding between the pelting raindrops without being touched by them. The little girl's wide eyes are glued to her movements._

_ Steve feels the raindrops slide beneath his collar, but he's not cold. In fact, the air is downright steamy, swollen with moisture that makes his clothes hang on him like a blanket. He flicks his eyes to the side and spots Darcy leaning against the far wall, rain streaking down her glasses and her arms crossed over her chest. She's staring hard at the dancer as well, biting nervously at her lower lip until it's an unnatural bright pink color._

_ Darcy's eyes meet his, and Steve finds that her expression is totally unreadable. She pushes herself off the wall and begins to walk towards him, taking a looping, meandering route that's nowhere near as fluid and controlled as the dancer's procession. When Darcy makes it to his side she leans into him, propping herself up like a drunk on a bender, and stares at the group of people taking shelter from the rain. She grabs onto Steve's arm, and opens her mouth to speak._

_ "'The time has come,' the Walrus said,_

_ 'To talk of many things:_

_ Of shoes – and ships – and sealing-wax – _

_ Of cabbages – and kings – _

_ And why the sea is boiling hot – _

_ And whether pigs have wings.'"_

* * *

The next day there's a knock at the door, which is strange in and of itself. The only people who come to visit Steve are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and he's noticed that they have a distinctive and persistent knock. This one's far more tentative and lighter, giving him a better idea as to who's on the other side of the door. Sure enough, he sees Darcy standing on the other side of it when he pulls it open, hands shoved in her jean pockets and a satchel slung around her torso.

"I've got to run to the supermarket," she says without waiting for any pleasantries. "Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"No, I'm all set here. But thank you," Steve replies. The request is certainly a bit unusual, but as he can count the times that they've met in person on one hand, maybe Darcy's offer of help isn't as unusual as it seems. He doesn't really know her all that well, despite the fact that they've been sharing these dreams for a while now.

Darcy nods, her woven hat slipping down her forehead a bit. "Okay, well, I'll see you around then. If you need anything, just call me. Or put a sign in your window. It'd be kind of hard to miss." She presses her lips together, cutting off the rambling speech before it can get truly out of hand, nods once more, then spins on her heels to walk away. Steve watches her as she moves away, stepping slowly, carefully.

About ten feet down the hallway she stops and turns back to him, pushing her hat back into place. "Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah?" He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches her wring her hands nervously.

"What did you dream about last night?"

Now the surprise visit to ask about the status of his groceries makes a bit more sense. "There was a family - parents, grandparents, kids – sitting around a…movie set? I think? And it was raining."

Darcy smiles, a wistful look that chases away the prior nervousness. "That was the first time I went to Disney World."

"Disney, like the animator?"

"Yeah, he's got some massive amusement parks around the world now. Amongst other things which you will have to research yourself because Disney stuff isn't exactly my forte." She shakes her head, still grinning. "Anyway. It's weird, I haven't thought about that in years. It had started raining on the day we went to Epcot, and we were hiding out in the courtyard of the Morocco part to wait out the storm. There was this belly dancer there, maybe to keep the people entertained, or maybe she was just killing time. I don't know." Her eyes grow distant, like she's trying to pull the images from memory and dream forth once more. "And I remember thinking that when I grew up, I wanted to be able to dance exactly like she did."

"Did you?" Steve asks.

"Nah. No coordination in these hips, as it turns out."

Steve huffs, not quite a laugh but approaching it. "I know the feeling."

Darcy shoves her hands back into her pockets, and the look on her face is clearly skeptical. "Really? You?" Her eyes run up and down his figure, appraising and measuring him.

He shakes his head. "There are a lot of things I can do, but dancing isn't one of them." Thoughts of that last radio conversation on the Valkyrie threaten to bubble up and drag him back down into the memories, but Steve pushes them away, at least for the moment. They'll catch up with him, but at least he can buy himself a little bit of time before that happens. "And the _Through the Looking-Glass_ bit?"

She bites her lip, looks up at the ceiling of the hallway that could definitely benefit from a fresh coat of paint. "No idea," she admits. "Does it have to make sense?"

"I guess not."

Darcy begins to back slowly down the hallway. "I really do have to get to the supermarket," she says, but her whole demeanor is much, much lighter than it had been a few minutes previously. "So seriously, if you ever do need anything or just feel like bitching and moaning to someone, let me know. I'm literally right next door. I don't know everything about this big crazy world we're in, but I may be able to answer some of the questions."

"Except about Disney things," Steve says.

"Except that," she agrees. "I'll see you around, Steve." As she's walking towards the stairwell she calls back, "If I ever find a place that does dance lessons I'm dragging you along with me. We can stumble awkwardly through it together."

Steve just shakes his head a final time and slips back into his apartment, locking the door behind him as if it has the ability to keep 2012 at bay.

* * *

A/n: The quote in the dream is by Lewis Carroll. I'm still taking dream prompts as well. I've got a number of dream scenes that I'm planning on doing, but they're still in the nebulous stages and could definitely benefit from prompts to guide them. Leave them in the comments, or hit up the tumblr to drop me a line. Thank you to everyone who left ideas on the previous dream as well – those are going to be incorporated in future scenes too.


	4. Dream 3

Steve gives up and calls it a night after reading about how the Dodgers packed it in and left Brooklyn for California. It's one of those things where he can't even try and find the positives, so he doesn't bother and trades it in for sleep instead.

* * *

_The vision is a familiar one, and Steve revels in it. The sun pounds down over wooden bleachers that ring the grassy green field, there's a clamor of mirthful voices in the air, and the players on the field below look like little toy soldiers getting ready to play baseball instead of go to war. He sighs, exhaling with a bit of relief at the sight. Steve can feel the hard back of the seat in front of him, and he looks down to find some suspiciously skinny wrists there._

_ A quick glance down at the rest of his body tells him that he's back in his pre-serum shape, and dressed in the clothes to match. But his body doesn't hurt, and he can breathe deeply without struggling, so he can deal. There are more important things to focus on anyway, Steve thinks, and turns his eyes to the batter at the plate._

_ "Are we where I think we are?" a voice asks next to him, and he looks away from the first strike of the inning to find Darcy sitting next to him. She's not paying attention to him, but rather taking in the unfamiliar sights around her. He's dreamt her into appropriate clothes for the time as she's wearing a shirtdress in a summery, flowery pattern and a thin belt that cinches her waist. Her hair's curled and pinned up, tucked under a hat that doesn't do much to block the sun above but at least complements the rest of the outfit._

_ Even in the dream Darcy pushes her glasses up her nose with one red lacquered finger, and then looks over at him. "So is this original Steve?" she asks, sweeping an appraising look over him._

_ "That's one way of putting it," he says, shrugging. "But yeah, this was what I looked like before the serum." And though he doesn't want to admit it, he's waiting with his breath caught in his chest to hear her final verdict on what she sees._

_ Darcy nods decisively, lips painted red to match her nails curving up into a slow smile. "I like it," she says. "So you're a baseball fan?" she continues, focusing on him rather than on the game below._

_ He nods, his gaze moving past her and looking at the runner below executing a perfect slide into second base. "Couldn't really play it, not with the way my lungs were, but I love watching it. I knew all of the players, stats, and anything else you could think of." Steve chuckles, and shakes his head. "And just now I find out that my team up and left for the west coast while I was…away. Just another way the world changed while I was sleeping."_

_ She twists in her seat to face him fully, the folds of her light, floral skirt bunching up and revealing pale, shapely legs and sturdy, leather, heeled shoes. Her legs are…surprisingly distracting, and he has to really focus to bring his eyes back to hers before she catches him looking. "My grandpa was a teenager when the Dodgers went out to California. Get enough brandy in him and he still starts bitching about it."_

_ "And now I feel incredibly old. Thanks."_

_ Darcy just rolls her eyes, but she's grinning. "Whatever, old man." Steve should be offended by this but her face is lit up and she's obviously happy and he can't help but be swept up in the giddiness of it all. He grins back and relaxes in his seat, soaking in the atmosphere._

_ For a moment, it feels like he's home again._

_ Another cheer rises up from the crowd, and they turn to see what's happening on the field below. Steve's eyes land on the batter coming up to the plate, and he shakes his head, his lips twisting upwards. "Of course," he mutters to himself. Down at the plate Bucky's swinging a baseball bat in his right hand, smirking out at the crowd in that way of his Steve remembers getting them into (and out of) more than a few scrapes. He's dressed in Dodger blue and white with a cap pulled down low over his forehead, but Steve can still see his eyes gleaming and glittering in the sunlight. _

_Bucky twirls the bat once more and moves into his stance. The same stillness and intensity that made him such a good sniper are easily adaptable for baseball, and it's only a matter of time until he spots just the right pitch to make his move. "This ought to be good," Steve says, leaning forward and bracing his arms on the seat back in front of him. Darcy mirrors his position, her eyes glued forward and her face shining with anticipation._

* * *

When Steve wakes up, it takes him a moment to remember he's in the future once more, and that his body hasn't suddenly reverted to its previous look. Still, he allows his mind to drift as he lies in bed; thinking about nothing in particular as he stares at the lightening sky that eventually gives way to sunlight.

* * *

a/n: So at some point soon I'm going to be migrating all of these dreams over into their own story, tentatively titled _Night's the Only Time of Day_. I won't be updating this one anymore, and will also have it revert back to its complete status, so you can follow my name instead or keep an eye out for the new story. Thank you for reading and commenting, especially the usual suspects (you know who you are!) and I hope to see you in future parts as well.


	5. Dream 4

It's said that our dreams help us process and compartmentalize the evens that happen to us over the prior day. Some we remember, most we don't, and on the whole scientists still haven't been able to explain exactly why we dream, just that we do. So when the day Darcy has can only be defined as truly horrible (complete with a job that almost gets her punched in the face by an irate client, a fight with her mother about finding steadier employment as a result of the aforementioned incident, a broken strap on her heels, a lost Metro Card, and some creepy dude who smelled like burnt rubber and would not leave her alone until the bouncer threw him out at the bar she went to with the roommates to drown her sorrows) is it any wonder that her dreams that night are less than pleasant?

* * *

_She's running. Her booted feet pound the dusty pavement as she runs full tilt away from the screams of metal and the heat behind her. When she dares to look behind her, which she can't help but do, Darcy can see the streets of that little New Mexico town set aflame, wood and brick crackling and crumbling beneath the onslaught. Pacing ever so slowly up the middle of the street is the Destroyer, steady step after step after step._

_ "What the hell is that?" she hears Steve breathe behind her. His presence should make her feel more at ease, safer, but instead Darcy only feels the need to run. They have to run as far and as fast as possible otherwise that thing will fry them._

_ "Evil," she says, spinning in place and pushing at Steve's torso, trying to get him to move. "Run, please, run." Darcy shoves at him again until he turns, grabs her hand, and begins to pull her along._

_ In real life she had worked to get the innocents out of the way, to make sure that the fire breathing robot had as few targets as possible for its anger. She had Thor, and Jane, and his alien friends there as well, which gave her courage in a weird way. She wasn't alone in the fight, and that always helps._

_ But now it's just her and Steve, and as strong as Steve is she's sure that he won't be able to take the Destroyer down on his own, so there's really only one option. Run. Run as fast and as far and as long as they can, until they're sure the thing is left in the dust behind them._

_ So they run. Darcy runs until her lungs are burning and the sweat is dripping down her back, making her clothes feel heavy on her skin. Her fingers are clammy where they wrap around Steve's, hot and sticky from all of the kicked up dust that clings to them. But even in her dreams she can't keep up with him, and she's constantly stumbling and tripping over whatever detritus is left behind in the streets._

_ Darcy doesn't know if it's a rock or a trash can or whatever that trips her up for the last time. But it does, making her lose her grip on Steve's hand and go stumbling to the ground, tearing her hands and knees open on the pavement. She can hear Steve call after her, screaming out her name so that it can be heard over the sound of the chaos all around them. The Destroyer is at her back then, though, and she can feel the flames beginning to lick up her legs, burning away clothes, skin, and muscles until there's only bone left, and even that won't last forever._

* * *

Darcy awakes with a shout, taking deep ragged breaths like maybe she can scrub the images from her brain. The breaths aren't able to lessen the roiling in her stomach, however, and combined with the amount of alcohol she'd had earlier, is definitely not a good lies still for a minute, thinking that maybe the lack of movement might help to calm her down.

Nope, no dice.

She rolls out of bed and bolts for the garbage bin in the kitchen, thinking that since the bathroom is all the way on the other side of the apartment and her room is right next to the kitchen, closer is always better. Darcy crashes to her knees in front of the bin and tries to blot out the next few minutes of her existence. She's always hated vomiting.

Her forehead leans against the edge of the bin until she's sure she can get up without throwing up what little is left in her stomach. She can deal with the head-pounding and the shaky legs once she's back in bed, but she's got no desire to spend the rest of the night leaning over the side of the mattress and sleeping with her head in a bucket. "Damn beer," she mutters, flipping the plastic lid closed and staggering ungracefully to her feet.

Darcy braces her hands on the windowsill for a moment, looking out at the alley below. Her eyes make their way upward, noticing that the light in Steve's living room is on and that he's standing right there in a very tight t-shirt with a concerned look on his face. Dammit, he was there in the dream too, wasn't he, she thinks. 'Are you okay?' she can see him mouth. Darcy nods.

Unfortunately the nodding motion sets her stomach all aflutter again, and she drops like a rock back to her knees with her head in the bin. Once it's all over but the dry heaves, Darcy lifts herself up again. She wants to signal to Steve that everything really is fine (he was in the army in the middle of a war, he had to have seen people suffering from the effects of overindulgence in alcohol, right?) but while the lights are still on in his place he's nowhere to be seen. When she looks downward she can see a dim figure crossing the alleyway between the two buildings, and she swears under her breath.

Suspecting that Steve wasn't going to leave her be until he's sure she's all right, Darcy stumbles her way into the bathroom, shoves her toothbrush into her mouth, and goes to open the apartment door. The minty flavor doesn't help with the nausea, but it's better than having anyone see her with vomit breath. She gets there just in time to see Steve coming up the stairway, eyes darting around the space and looking more than a little bit lost. When his eyes land on her she waves, toothbrush still in mouth, and motions him inside the apartment.

He follows her through the dark corridor silently, and doesn't say anything as she stops in the kitchen to get rid of the toothbrush. With a nod of her head he follows her into her bedroom, not saying anything until her door's shut and locked and the small light on the thrift store bedside table flicked on. "You, uh, you're a little underdressed," Steve says, pointedly not looking at her. Darcy looks down at the tank top and shorts she's wearing, and rolls her eyes.

"Welcome to women's sleepwear in the twenty-first century," she says, waving at him to take a seat. Still, she crawls back under the covers of her bed and pulls them up around her shoulders. The temperature is still in freezing range outside, and the heat in the apartment has never worked right. There's also a draft coming in from the skylight, which doesn't help with the goose bumps.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It looked like you had passed out there," Steve says, sitting down in the overstuffed armchair in the corner of the room. "That was a pretty intense dream."

Darcy curls up into a little ball under the covers and looks over at him. "It wasn't anywhere near that bad in real life," she replies, but then backtracks. "Who am I kidding, it was horrible. Kind of fun at first really, but pretty scary at the end."

Steve tugs at the cuffs of his leather jacket which looks squeaky and new, like it's been barely been worn despite its vintage styling. "Still, you survived it," he eventually said, not looking at her. "And you didn't seem to come out any the worse for it."

"Possibly," she concedes, which finally brings Steve's eyes back up to hers. "But it was one of those things that you can't go back from, you know?" Darcy blurts out. "Like, you suddenly know that there's so many scarier things out there in this world that no one else has got any idea about, and they all think that you're the lunatic for trying to cope with this newfound knowledge as best as you can." It hits her that she must still be a bit drunk if she's letting her mouth run off like it is. She's talkative on a good day, but the words keep spilling forth and she's too buzzed to figure out where her off button currently is.

Steve's mouth curls upwards at the corners. "I think I can understand what that's like."

"Which is why I'm commiserating with you." Darcy's stomach flip-flops again, and she groans as she rolls onto her back. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply through her nose, trying to get the step dancers in her belly to give it a rest.

"Do your nightmares often make you sick?" Steve asks, and even in her state she can hear the concern in his voice.

She snorts sleepily, her eyelids suddenly too heavy to lift. "No, that's 'cause of the beer." Darcy takes in another deep breath, and rolls her head in Steve's direction even though her eyes are now firmly shut for the night. "You know where the door is, but if you wanna crash on the chair, that's cool too."

With that Darcy slides back into a shaky, drunken sleep.

* * *

A/n: From here on out the dreams are going to be posted in a separate story called: "Come into My Life (Regress into a Dream)". Please note: the story/universe is not over! I will keep going with it – the next dream is actually written up already – but for organizational purposes the dreams will have their own story. So keep an eye out for that story, and thank you for reading!


End file.
